The Summer We All Ran Away by Cassandra Parkin Page B

was Theseus in the labyrinth, following an uncouth and dazzling Ariadne. A pair of huge double doors opened reluctantly onto a vast, echoing room with a battered grand piano, a double-height ceiling and no windows. Ornate stone coving surrounded blank alcoves containing a skim of bare plaster. At the far end of the room, the entire fourth wall was missing. A spindly nettle grew between the floorboards. “I reckon they had a fight about whether it was going to be a ballroom or a swimming pool,” said Priss. “Can you imagine? I could get my whole
house
in here. Don’t do that, soft lad,you’ll go through the floor.” She yanked Davey backwards, just as his foot pushed through dry, powdery wood into the cool damp below.
    Wondering how she’d known, he followed her onto the next puzzle; a large room on the undecorated side of the house, containing a teak dining table with twenty-four chairs. This seemed reasonable, if unusually opulent – even his stepfather had drawn the line at twelve places – until Priss sighed and told him that they were as far as it was possible to be from the kitchen. “Are we?” he asked in bewilderment, and Priss snorted in disgust and dragged him onwards. In a room with an upright piano, a nice view of the grounds and faded wallpaper patterned with peacock feathers, she pulled aside a moth-eaten velvet curtain to uncover a space barely larger than a pantry containing an ancient record player, a lot of boxes filled with vinyl records, an old-fashioned school-desk, and a hard, uncomfortable chair. Lost from the beginning, Davey wondered if he would ever see his room, or the kitchen, or the library, or Tom and Kate, or anything he recognised, ever again.
    â€œAnd this leads back to the hall,” said Priss, opening another door.
    To Davey’s astonishment, they were indeed back where they’d started. There was the front door, and there were the stairs, looking different when approached from a different angle. He peered at them, suspecting them of having subtly transformed themselves during his absence. At the end of the kitchen, French windows opened out to a wide veranda. A surprisingly well-kept lawn led to a towering wall of shrubs where faint traces of long-buried paths summoned the brave into their green depths.
    â€œRound two,” said Priss. “Outside.”
    Davey’s toes cringed at the feel of the cold wet grass beneath them, but he didn’t dare ask Priss to let him go back and get his shoes. The trail – he couldn’t call it a path – wound thinlybetween the massive, towering trees, making him think of forests in fairy tales. Several times he had to stop and pick holly leaves out of the soles of his feet. Priss strode ahead, talking at him over her shoulder.
    â€œSo what do you think to the library? Bet that was your favourite.”
    For as long as he could remember, Davey had fantasised about having his own library. His stepfather said books were untidy.
    â€œIt’s great,” he offered. Priss sniffed, and picked up the pace. Davey struggled to keep up with her. His head was throbbing and his eyes felt hot and sore. His forehead was drenched with a clammy sweat.
    â€œAre you alright?” asked Priss unexpectedly.
    â€œFine,” he gasped.
    She stopped anyway, and he leaned gratefully against a tree and tried to catch his breath. Priss took her notebook out and scribbled in it. He had known plenty of people who carried notebooks as theatrical props, but Priss didn’t seem to be doing it for his benefit. He found he liked watching her when she didn’t know he was looking.
    â€œAre you going to be an artist?” he asked at last, for something to say.
    â€œWriter.” She put the notebook away and set off through the shrubs again. They were climbing now, a small steep hill thrusting disconcertingly out of nowhere.
    â€œWhat sort of thing do you want to write?”
    â€œI